https://open.spotify.com/track/1kV8AxtYItjuTBOBHEGmPH?si=c1127b376ba84ffa
Recommended if you like Gorky’s Zygoti Mynci.
Especially the album The Blue Trees.
Tag Archives: Welsh
“Nothing in Return” [2021)
https://open.spotify.com/track/7r3Ox60LoEHNfULR4LOZp6?si=d4dd65db15634d04
Recommended if you like Elliott Smith.
Mad Max [1979)
Crunch time.
Ghost rider.
Motorcycle hero.
Chain Bowery.
Hand.
Mind games.
Fifi McAfee.
Toecutter is Wayne Coyne. Hugh Keays-Byrne. On Highway 61. In a forrest-green Ford Focus? Oklahoma plates. Near Emerald Mound. Flaming Lips poster tucked into the back of the driver’s seat. Soft Bulletin era. Before Yoshimi. Dead in December of last year in New South Wales. Peacefully? In a hospital? At age 73? 12/2/2020. Gay Bubba is Marc Almond. Satanist. Now says it was a joke. This is quintessential Antifa. As if Johnny the Boy had his eyes gouged out. Dumb driver runs away. Left his woman. Pitiful. Steve Bisley with compassion. Goose is Max von Sydow. We are going to win Australia back for Australians. And win Canada back for Canadians. And win the U.K. back for the English and Scottish and Welsh. And the Irish of Belfast. My mates in The Answer. Google me. No one showed up. And Johnny walked free. It’s time to show up, Australia. Here is your song, Australia. We will make it together. https://soundcloud.com/paulydeathwish/australia-here-i-come-original Bernard Kerik is now on our side. Goose. We won’t lose. Lori “Eraserhead” Lightfoot. 
That THING is not the Mayor of Chicago. Intel from Bobby Piton that she is a CCP operative. Interesting. Singer licking her lips. Could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. Goose’s last taste of life. Went out with a bang. But burnt to a crisp. And not out. Alive and suffering. Bike in the back of a fuck-ugly ute. Under which Goose is cooked. Antifa tactics. Mean, nasty people. Cowards. Sadists. Unhappy adolescents who remain unhappy adolescents for their entire lives. Sick utopians. If only everyone saw things their way, then the world would be a wonderful place. They think. Rebels without an understanding of their cause. Which is to say, without a cause. The cause is only a prop. And so nebulous as to be virtually nonexistent. West side story. Cascadia. Rosa Brooks. Nils Gilman. Transition Integrity Project. Brooks involved in Soros projects like Open Society Foundations. Gilman with Berggruen in California. Which is to say, China. Intimate connection. Berggruen Institute. Satellite offices mainland. Tries to quit and get out. Some good times. Family time. Swimming. A child. Tender moments between man and wife. Sharing childhood memories in vulnerability. Fifi needed him. McAfee. Abandoned. Had to make a choice. Chose family. I chose family. And now I can buy Bitcoin and shrink Abbey Road to the size of a matchbox. More or less. At least as passable as Radiohead glitch fidelity. Sprog is sperg. Autists activate.
Reconcile. Contempt meets Rambo. Again it’s Cascadia. Twin Peaks. Knives in movies. They drew first blood, not me. Paul Hogan. Mel Gibson never finished fixing the fan belt. If you wait, it’s too late. Death Wish. True romance. It would seem they needed Toecutter for the sequel. Good versus evil. The Flaming Lips versus me. Versus the Devil in fuckery. You can saw through the cuffs in 10, or your ankle in 5. Joanne Samuel beautiful and great acting. The Mel Gibson contingent is taking back the world. Just you watch.
-PD
bucolic [2021)
It starts just like Charlotte Gainsbourg.
5:55.
Air.
Nigel Godrich.
But there is something different.
A shruti box?
A little distorto guitar.
Ah, yes.
Chuchotements.
Françoise Hardy.
A little Yo La Tengo.
Built to Spill.
Guitar carries it for a second.
Good lyrics.
All mood.
And then into an Amon Düül II warble.
Like Marc Bolan.
Jim Carrey.
Most annoying sound in the world.
Into Pink Floyd.
David Gilmour.
Circa The Wall.
Strange sadness.
Almost a premonition of impending doom.
Calm before the storm.
J. Spaceman telephony.
Floating with no highs and no lows.
All mids.
Strong opening track.
Very slow-moving.
Luxurious.
Immediate Delgados shift.
Paul Savage.
Pauly Deathwish.
Glasgow effect.
Great counterpoint for a pop musician.
But if you check this bloke’s CV…
You’ll know he went through Fux.
Gonna have to say Elliott Smith.
Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci.
Megan Childs violin.
Around the warm fire.
Welsh.
Expansive.
Strings open up.
Hate.
More Fridmann.
Pointillism.
Schoenberg.
Timbre.
Richard James.
GZM.
Beethoven.
Another Welshman.
John Cale.
Orchestral bass that Lou loved.
This guy’s a bastard.
Jaded.
Hurt.
Is this a breakup album?
I thought the last one was a breakup album?
Ahhh…
Into Gorwel Owen.
1968.
Floyd.
Atom.
Mad cow.
The last GZM album.
Rockfield.
Bohemian.
String band.
Money never runs out.
Cheap air organ.
Tubes?
Fan.
A very apropos album title.
Woody.
Tobacco.
Spring water Scotch.
And then the Great Reset arrives.
Like a fucking spaceship.
Dark shit.
What is this glitch business?
Thom Yorke blasts upon the scene.
Drums James Brown.
Good groove.
Savvy.
Whoa!
Marching band.
Drumline.
Snares.
Caught by Lee “Scratch”.
Guitar all mangled.
Melodies solid.
Mogwai?
Bert Jansch out of fucking nowhere.
Definitely Lips.
Pet Sounds.
Track rejected by Bond franchise.
Convincing.
Acoustic to electric.
Now it’s Serge.
Requiem.
Stereolab.
Break beat.
Absolutely boffo.
BOF.
More Brian Wilson.
Van Dyke Parks.
Phil Spector.
High Llamas.
Still a sadness.
That the old world is passing away.
FUCK!!!
Right into some Leonard Cohen shit!
Scott Walker.
How the FUCK was this recorded?
Sounds like 2″ tape.
Question:
how has this Pauly Deathwish released three albums in two months?
I can’t even keep up with this guy.
Mercury Rev.
Deserter’s Songs.
Levon Helm.
Chamberlin.
Mellotron?
Like a Christmas album.
See You on the Other Side.
David Fricke.
A review in the liner notes.
“Everlasting Arm”.
Definite vibe.
Record pillaging wizard.
Baritone.
Lots of fucking glockenspiel on this record.
But it’s nice.
Like Ennio Morricone.
Cinema Paradiso.
Mandolins.
Jackie Gleason.
Dean Martin.
Herb Alpert.
Tchaikovsky.
Again with sugar plum.
Slick!
Very light.
Chiaroscuro.
Fresher than the sweetness in water.
Hearing Dungen.
IV Thieves.
Makes sense.
“Frenchie” Smith.
Dig CV.
Light, British, airy.
Good hook.
Hooky.
Is this the single?
A little neo-psych Hendrix moment.
It’s definitely GZM.
Repetition until transcend.
Stereolab first album.
Not looped.
Manuel.
Carpenters.
Messiaen.
Definitely some breakup here.
Sonic Youth.
Sister.
Experimental.
Thurston.
Lots of drum machine.
Drum and bass.
Panning.
Definitely holds up with Radiohead.
How the fuck was this made?
PD tells us that it was all made on an iPhone with only a Telecaster.
That is some serious trickery.
Ear fooling.
This is COMPLEX music.
Mixes sound polished.
Clarity.
Some Chinese stuff.
Noise floor fucked for the first time ever.
Bacon?
Rollerskate Skinny.
It’s THAT good.
Shoulder Voices.
How was this made?
This heralds a new talent.
But this bloke is 44.
Tour sponsored by Ensure.
Not hearing a sophomore slump here.
Two albums in two months.
Review third forthcoming.
This dude is emo as fuck.
I dig it.
This guy is a mystery.
What is his deal?
This sounds more like a cohesive album that Introversion.
Introversion sounds like a debut album…in all the best ways.
Songs saved up.
A greatest hits.
Go big or go home.
This album deals much more in subtlety.
Not every song here is a home run.
This album breathes.
Ambiance.
Negative space.
More Beach Boys vibes.
70s.
Sad.
Bathrobe.
But mentally sharp.
A spark of genius.
A little bluegrass.
Bill Monroe.
Dock Boggs.
The old world is passing away.
Jonny Greenwood.
Georges Bizet.
Live forever.
Nonesuch.
Elektra.
Hoyt Ming.
Incredible String Band.
Wales, Scotland.
Back and forth.
And across to Ireland.
Oh, no.
There’s the single.
“Makes Me Wanna Stay in Bed”.
Emma Pollock.
Hate is all you need.
Coming in from the cold.
New Radicals.
Delayed bass from The Wall.
Pavement.
Spoon.
Good fucking song!
Eisteddfod.
All Is Dream.
Hard following up.
Unenviable.
Emma Pollock solo.
With Alun Woodward singing.
The Great Eastern.
New Spiritualized.
Banjo.
Let It Come Down.
Abbey Road.
Coldplay.
A Rush of Blood to the Head.
This bloke is serious as fuck.
Sad eyes.
I’m sensing a Jandek promotional strategy.
Final track Richter.
Ravel.
Emperor.
Philip Glass.
Conlon Nancarrow.
City/country dichotomy.
Urban/rural.
Urban encroaching.
Something felt.
Big symphony night.
Excitement of New York Phil.
The fucking french horns!
Automation.
A story in dynamics.
Lesson.
A folk album.
bucolic.
Pauly Deathwish.
iTunes.
Spotify.
-PD
Cochochi [2009)
Long ago.
When I went to Spain.
I was amazed to find.
Not everyone speaks Spanish.
Primarily.
In Catalunya, with Barcelona, they speak Catalan.
In the Basque Country, with Bilbao, they speak the fascinating Euskara (or Basque language).
And in Galicia, where clothing giant Inditex (Zara) is located, they speak Galego (or Galician).
[Even Google Translate recognizes Galician now.]
And that’s all in Spain!
But how was I to know this?
Being a boy from Texas.
Well, I did my research…
Let me tell you: it’s not easy finding a Basque language guide here.
Even in a diverse city such as Austin!
But now I am in San Antonio.
And here we have another Mexican film.
But it’s not in Spanish.
Yes, Mexico is linguistically rich too.
This film is in Tarahumara.
Yes.
That’s a language.
Spoken by about 85,000 people.
AND…it’s one of 63 “national languages” of Mexico!!
Other sources count 69 languages in the country (including Spanish).
Tarahumara is one of four languages in Mexico which fall under the Taracahita branch of Uto-Aztecan languages.
And when you watch this wonderful film (currently available on Netflix in the U.S.), you will see the distinctive, beautiful faces of the child actors who carry on this “Aztec” heritage.
But don’t be confused.
The Uto-Aztecan languages stretch as far north as Idaho (Uto, as in Ute language, as in Utah).
And as far south as El Salvador.
But suffice it to say.
Even Mexicans might be hard-pressed to understand the dialogue of Cochochi.
Thank God for subtitles!
Our film is directed by Israel Cardenas and Laura Amelia Guzmán.
And they do a fantastic job.
The film is sparse.
Quiet.
The child actors evoke the magic of Víctor Erice’s masterpiece El espíritu de la colmena.
And while Cochochi seems to emanate from another planet (kind of like that “Martian” language Basque…[or, for that matter, Welsh]), there are faint glimmers of cinematic quotation here and there.
Perhaps a sudden splash of color…some sunflowers…in an otherwise bleak, earth-tone color palette…à la Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry.
Or even the delicacy of time passing…perhaps what Deleuze meant by the “time-image” all those years ago…but what I instinctively associate with Ingmar Bergman–that eerie silence which characterizes nature in its most remote regions.
The Rarámuri people depicted in this film (our Tarahumara speakers) live (in this case) in the state of Chihuahua.
Northwestern Mexico.
[The Rarámuri people are also found in the states of Durango and Sonora]
Our actors have the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains as their backdrop.
Places like Copper Canyon.
But this is no Bogart film.
Each and every movement and bit of dialogue which our directors elicit from their players is an act of loving capture.
Priceless moments which convey a multitude of new thoughts to those unfamiliar with the Rarámuri people.
Our main actors play themselves in the movie.
Yes, in much the way you would expect Robert Flaherty to make a film.
But keep in mind that the French title of Blue is the Warmest Color is La Vie d’Adèle – Chapitres 1 & 2.
As in Adèle Exarchopoulos.
As in, the actress (Exarchopoulos) was playing a character which bore her name: Adèle.
[at least her first name]
But the stars of our film are two young actors who don’t even have Spanish Wikipedia pages.
Luis Antonio Lerma Torres plays Tony (short for Antonio).
His full name is utilized for that of his character.
Tony is great in this film.
But the real star is Evaristo Corpus Lerma Torres.
Evaristo gives a performance which is unforgettable.
Quiet. Understated. Real.
But don’t be fooled…
These two film brothers (real life as well?) need each other.
Their personalities play off one another.
To call this a road film would be slightly inaccurate.
There aren’t really roads here.
At least with paving.
And while there are a couple of rusty pickup trucks which transport members of various communities around…creeping along the dirt roads (gratis, of course)…the real drama involves a horse.
Indeed, there are horses about.
Donkeys.
Sheep.
But this one horse is very important.
Because Tony and Evaristo have “borrowed” it…from their grandfather.
This is really a transcendent story of mercy and love…of patience…and of the brilliance of nature.
Animals are smart.
And miracles can be in the wise words of grandfathers…
Forgiveness.
And wonder.
-PD
Trainspotting [1996)
There’s something special about Scotland.
Several of my favorite bands are from there.
The Delgados. Teenage Fanclub. Primal Scream.
And it is this final band which really sums up this film.
The British really have never learned how to make films.
There are two major exceptions:
Chaplin and Hitchcock.
Why would they be exceptions?
Because they made their best films in America. Hollywood.
It’s ironic.
Because Chaplin and Hitchcock are perhaps the two best. Ever.
Hitchcock was the better director. Perhaps the most important ever.
But Chaplin was the bigger genius. His talent was limitless.
So my insult is not meant to imply that the British can’t make timeless films.
They can.
But perhaps not in Britain.
But this whole British blah blah blah.
This film is going in my new category: Scotland.
Another of my favorite bands (Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci) is Welsh.
I hope to have that category someday. Wales.
And last but not least: Ireland.
Which is not to say I don’t have a fond place in my heart for England.
I do.
Manchester. Liverpool. Bristol. Birmingham. Newcastle. I could go on.
But we’re here to talk about Scotland. And this film.
Trainspotting is, at once, a great film and not a great film. Simultaneously.
Let me explain.
7/7
Looks like as much of a false-flag synthetic terror…the state attacking its own people as.
9/11
Heroin addicts don’t know what day it is. Not to mention the “date”.
Heroin addicts don’t know what month it is. Even the year is a bit fuzzy.
They’re fairly sure that a new century has ticked over.
Ewan McGregor is pretty great here. In his too-small shirt. Accidentally shagging a minor.
Oops.
Ewen Bremner is good here. Especially the job interview.
Beautiful to hear English which begs for subtitles.
Jonny Lee Miller has the best hair. Like Thom Yorke once upon a time.
Bleach-blond chop.
But McGregor has the utilitarian buzz cut. The sad skinhead.
Spud on the curb. Talking up at Diane.
And Sick Boy always prattling on about James Bond movies. [like me]
Kevin McKidd is classic rifling through his VHS collection. Desperately.
Kelly Macdonald is a revelation.
But Robert Carlyle is really the only indispensable element of this entire film.
He’s not great. And yet he’s better than great.
Danny Boyle’s direction is generally daft.
It’s good. Then it’s great. Then it sucks.
But I’ll say this: this is an essential film.
You can’t know rock and roll without knowing this film.
Boyle lifted the DNA of rock (with the help of Irvine Welsh).
The story’s alright. The direction is passable.
But Robert Carlyle is a goddamned miracle.
He’s not conveying anything sublime.
But he’s conveying Scotland.
To me.
King Tut’s Wah-Wah Hut.
Yeah, I know…Edinburgh.
But it’s just as applicable to Glasgow.
I hear it in the music of Primal Scream.
And it shows up in the music of another of my favorites: Spiritualized.
And I hear it in the ravaging sounds of Nick Cave circa Grinderman.
The Anglophone world.
We Americans speak the weirdest.
Especially in my neck of the woods. Texas. The South.
But even New York. The Northeast.
There’s one more essential element about this film: Iggy Pop.
From “Lust For Life” to “Nightclubbing”, these tunes are moments of crystalized perfection.
Even Lou Reed is well-represented with “Perfect Day”.
If you wanna understand scumbag rock and roll, see this film.
Because the rockers are alive.
They have shite lives.
They live on nothing.
Unless they get lucky.
But there’s a vitality to their way of life.
See them in their natural habitat 🙂
-PD
SNL Season 1 Episode 8 [1975)
I don’t feel much like writing.
Christmas is creeping up.
I have much to be thankful for.
But it’s still sad.
That’s the best way to put it.
Dreams abandoned.
Deferred.
Years ticking by. And family we have lost.
Time we have lost.
But I try to focus on the positive right now.
Things could be much worse.
I am lucky. I’m lucky for the family I have.
Yes, this Saturday Night Live episode was the last of 1975 (their inaugural year).
They wouldn’t be back on until 1976 (the year I was born).
I want to say that this is not a very good episode.
That’s probably true, but I don’t want to seem like a scrooge.
I suppose it is wistful…
Candice Bergen is back on the show.
Ah, lovely Nordic Candice. The tyranny of beauty (as I heard someone say recently)…
It’s wistful because life has passed me by in many ways.
I was out making things happen, but I couldn’t make everything happen.
We dwell on our mistakes.
But what is really sad is being ignored.
Reaching out for help and getting no response whatsoever.
I myself haven’t been perfect.
A friend in Hong Kong. I owed him a letter. And we lost touch.
Life gets in the way.
But I’m still waiting at the altar. I poured my heart out the best I could. No response.
And another. (As Martha Reeves sings “Silver Bells”)…I was nice, right?
Not too pushy. Meek, even.
No response.
Ok, maybe it got lost in the mail. Try again. No.
No go.
And then finally another.
An honest message. Self-deprecating. Easy to get out of.
No response.
A handful of people that really don’t seem to care whether I live or die.
And who do I have?
Almost no one.
Humbled unto death. Staring at the dry dirt.
Christmas.
Martha Reeves is good. Great, even.
The Stylistics know what I’m talking about. Wonderful, soulful singing.
But we’re not having any fun.
Not like Candice and Gilda and Jane and Laraine.
Not like Garrett with his wonderful voice.
Not like Chevy and Dan and John.
The cute choreography.
That’s fun.
I miss that.
Not a lot of humor in this episode.
We need humor.
We need hope.
What does tomorrow bring?
More isolation?
Baby steps to normalcy.
I was in the coal mine for a year.
On the space station.
There wasn’t a blowout.
I came home safely.
I was at home all along.
But not with my thoughts.
No time to think when you’re climbing through ditches.
You might be a little too old to learn Welsh or Basque without an accent.
Yeah…
When you start to doubt your reason for being, you might be beaten.
One more year.
And then what?
A crappy job that you hate?
But there is an answer.
Love.
You can find love in the newspaper.
A clipping.
Something that tells you you’re on the right track.
Right now I’m not thinking too much about me.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
Right now is about love.
No more selfish.
No more head in the clouds while others pay the price.
I tried to be the best artist I could.
And now this is my art.
This is all I have left.
Not exactly Cahiers du Cinéma, but it’s the best I can do.
I pray it’s not meaningless.
That I’m learning.
That I won’t always be a loser.
I work hard.
I’m tired.
-PD
Death Defying Acts [2007)
It is shameful. No, she says. Who taught you that? My first review of a film by a female director. A director who happens to be female. A nearly perfect film.
Silly me. Gillian Armstrong is a very different person from Kathryn Bigelow. Born almost exactly a year apart. One making art films. The other shilling for the cocksuckers known as the New World Order.
Zero Dark Thirty. It is shameful. 9/11 Commission Report. Shameful. War on Terror. Shame. Shame.
The last words of the mother of Western civilization. What were they? Maybe Oswald Spengler was there by her bedside. What did she whisper? What were her worries? Her aspirations for us? Will she forgive us for throwing away our gifts in an endless magic show?
To be forgiven, perhaps one must repent. Western civilization is balls-deep into a fabricated war against Islam.
Forgive me. I have gone off track. Good films bring the sediment to the surface.
And thus I close the window on Kathryn Bigelow. She’s made her buck on a story. Fanciful. Opportunist. More likely spawn of Satan than complete moron.
But Gillian Armstrong has no such agenda in Death Defying Acts. We get a Welsh lady (Catherine Zeta-Jones) playing a Scot. We get an Irish girl born in the Bronx (Saoirse Ronan) playing a Scot. And finally we get an English-born Aussie (Guy Pearce) portraying a Hungarian-American escapologist from Appleton, Wisconsin.
Ahh, Appleton… It was not so long ago that I spoke of thee. Terry Zwigoff. Ghost World. Trying to make sense out of the final scene, I imagined Thora Birch journeying back to Zwigoff’s hometown. Houdini’s hometown.
It’s all a trick. Until it isn’t. Es tut mir leid. Wo bist du? Kaddish. Yes, Leonard Bernstein famously noted that God was/is in this [pointing] glass of orange juice. Kaddish.
This is truly the age of anxiety. Auden. May His great name be blessed forever, and to all eternity.
It is Thanksgiving with soaked acorns. bon appétit!
When there is seemingly nothing to praise, and then we realize how much we have. And we do not begrudge the loss. We give thanks for all the times of presence.
Ah, but we must face Montreal. Yanqui U.X.O. Leonard Cohen. Philip Guston.
Maybe it was a famous blue raincoat draped over his shoulders. There in the graveyard. Where they have been living a bit prematurely.
No, I think rather it is a bird on a wire. Harry had saved all his ribbons…for thee. He was the partisan battling himself. Push. Push. Harder. Be perfect. Be superhuman. And then let his guard down for a moment…
“I was cautioned to surrender. This I could not do.”
No. Fuck you.
“I’ve lost my wife and children.” You stole my country, he says. Your country stole my youth. I chose poorly.
“She died without a whisper.” Tarantino is the worst filmmaker working today. For that he deserves some credit.
“There were three of us this morning. I’m the only one this evening.” Double suicide on the Left Bank. Guy Debord. And who? And who else?
An old man in the attic. Hid us for the night. […] He died without surprise.
Thank you. ברוך שם כבוד מלכותו לעולם ועד
طيب الله اسمه العظيم إلى الأبد، وإلى الأبد.
J’ai la France entière
-PD
paulydeathwish 